Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Conversing in public bathrooms, especially very small ones, continues to confound the very foundations of interpersonal relations. I subscribe to the School of Shut Your Piehole While You Do Your Business, but the fellow I ran into today apparently studied at the School of I’m Going to Interrupt You Midstream. Although these awkward conversations usually last for mere seconds, this discussion lasted for a good five minutes.

The topic at hand was elevators, and while I’m not opposed to the concept of elevators per se–hell, how else can you rocket to the 859th floor of your skyscraper–I’d like to talk about them when I’m more than three feet from a filthy toilet. I listened politely as he held forth on the industry shift to AC motors, and by the time he finished I had unwound four feet of paper towels. Both the topic and the fellow were pleasant enough, understand, it was just that we were in the wrong forum.

Consider the Romans, paragons of good discussion. Do you think they debated comparative politics while urinating into their rudimentary sewage system? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, but I’ll answer it anyway. No, they did not debate while urinating into their rudimentary sewage system–they debated while urinating in their bathhouses. Perhaps you need a modern example, so I’ll offer up Chief Justice Rehnquist.

“Hey, I just had a thought about segrega–who forgot to fill the soap dispenser again?”

“You’re scary.”

Maybe this exchange took place, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m glad we all learned something today. I’m ready for a pun now, gentle reader, so piss off.